Walking Dead
by ScrewflySolution
Summary: Post- Reichenbach: When Sherlock gets into trouble in a foreign city, he turns to a surprising source for help. Can both of them reclaim the lives they had before "The Fall"?
1. Chapter 1

Nobody seemed to notice the drunk man in the expensive- looking greatcoat as he stumbled down the street; and if they did, they didn't care. It was a cold day, after all, with a heavy mist hanging over the city, and everyone was hurrying to get from the dreary streets to the warm interior.

The man in the coat kept his head down, glad that he had gone unnoticed, that no one had stopped to ask why he was clutching his side, or why there was blood trickling down from his temple where the mop of dark curls didn't quite cover the wound. In truth, Sherlock Holmes was extremely far from drunk, but he was happy to keep up the pretence as long as it meant he was safe from prying eyes.

Nottingham.

Stupid, _stupid_- incredibly stupid, coming here alone. Fair enough, Mycroft's men were annoying and spectacularly dull, but he really could have used the extra muscle this time around.  
>Sherlock's steps faltered and he only just managed to steady himself against the wall of the grey building. He hated being away from home. London wasn't only a wonderful city in itself, with its the bustle of life, leaving very few possibilities of boredom creeping up on him, but he knew all of its streets, places, buildings and landmarks like the back of his hand. It made him feel safe, and he now missed that welcome sense of familiarity.<p>

Nevertheless, he knew where he was going. What he wasn't quite sure about was if he would make it there; he could feel blood still seeping from his shoulder, and his head was pounding from the blow it had received. Sherlock estimated he had about fifteen minutes of consciousness left, if the blur in the corners of his vision was anything to go by. He cringed as he reminded himself of his destination. But then again, he could hardly go to a hospital; they didn't treat the dead.

He rounded the corner and knew he reached the right block of flats. He lowered his head pretending to bury his face in his scarf against the cold as a man with a dog left the building, but the other took no notice of him as he supported himself on the wall to remain upright.

Sherlock quickly pushed his foot between door and frame, and with a quick glance at the dog owner, who was engrossed in a lively conversation with his furry companion, he slipped inside the building.

Normally, Sherlock would have leapt up the flight of stairs, long legs taking three steps at a time; today, he was more than happy to take the lift.

The doors closed. Sherlock let his head fall back, resting against the cool metal of the lift's wall, eyes fluttering closed. It felt like his temples where trying to ex- and implode at the same time, and he felt an excruciating pressure behind his eyes. His left hand rose up and he pinched the bridge of his nose, but it really didn't help.

The loud 'ping' of the lift made his eyes fly open. Sherlock stepped out of the lift, blinking heavily. It was getting harder and harder to stay on his feet.

_Down the corridor, turn right, second door to the left. 503._

He almost fell twice on his way. His lungs were burning now, the ragged, shallow breaths he managed to take not nearly enough to supply his body with appropriate amounts of air; bright, grey spots clouded his vision, brain oxygen- deprived, blunt- force trauma not improving the situation. Approximately seven minutes of consciousness remaining.

Sherlock reached the door.

It was tricky to unlock the door. Breaking in was normally one of his specialties, but his hands were shaking and his long fingers were fumbling with the lock pick. It took him almost five minutes until the lock gave way with a soft click.

He struggled to his feet and entered the flat, the door falling shut behind him.

The interior of the small flat was messy. Some magazines and books lay scattered around the coffee table, along with several used mugs; some boxes were stacked in the corner of the room, not yet unpacked. The tennant had moved in a while ago, about four months, to be exact (thickness of the dust on the book shelf, only wiped around the books, too lazy to take the volumes out and wipe the shelf properly, dust was eloquent-) but had no real intention of staying in the city, hoping to return to-

His legs finally gave out. He only just managed to brace himself so he didn't fall on his right side.  
>He turned on his back, trying and failing to blink away pain and exhaustion. He wasn't sure what was going to happen when he would eventually be found; but then at least Mycroft would know where he was.<p>

Sherlock scoffed to himself, wondering when the hell he had come to depend on and trust his _brother_. It was essentially his fault he was in this mess in the first place, after all.

He had no more time to ponder the matter. Time was up. Unconsciousness beckoned, and for once, Sherlock gave in willingly.

Sally Donovan was, quite frankly, in a horrible mood. But it was hardly surprising, she thought, as she pulled her coat tighter against the constant, icy drizzle that the sky was blessing her with. She glared at the black vastness above her, but it seemed the clouds cared very little. The drizzle turned into rain.

Sighing heavily, Sally walked faster. Nottingham was worse than London, she thought. At least back home, she could have gotten a cab.

It was late, again. Paperwork. She hated it. The boss had kept her; he was coming on to her, no matter how many times she subtly refused him. Worst of all were the constant jibes of one female colleague, who happened to have the hots for the Inspector and seemed to deem Sally a threat.

In these moments, Sally pined for working with Lestrade again. They'd actually been something akin to friends before-

She forced her mind away from the subject. The Incident, as she thought of it now, was the reason she had requested a relocation; the reason she had moved to Nottingham.

Sally hadn't been able to look Lestrade in the eye anymore. She'd been praised by the Superintendant for uncovering the horrendous crimes of one consulting detective, but none of that had mattered to her. Not after what she'd found. And now... now it was too late, too late to turn back. She'd covered her own arse, by keeping quiet, but it didn't change what she'd done. She couldn't make it right, not anymore. A man was dead- a man she'd despised with every fibre of her being, whom she'd hated to passionately- and it was her fault. So much for not thinking about it, Sally scolded herself.

Finally, completely soaked and shivering, she reached 'home'. She collected her mail from the long row of letter boxes and then hurried up the stairs, eager to get rid of her wet clothes and take a steaming, hot shower.

As she reached her flat, she was surprised to find her door unlocked. Had she forgotten this morning? She was usually so careful. With a frown, Sally entered and then locked the door behind her.

Taking off her coat and shoes, Sally yawned, then made her way to the bathroom, through the living room. And then she stopped abruptly, eyes suddenly open wide, breath hitching in her throat.

Here, on the floor of her living room, lay Sherlock Holmes. There was a dead man in her flat.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**Just a couple of things you should know/ I'd like to say before you go off reading the second chapter.**

**Firstly, a big, giant Thank You- to all the lovely people who alerted/favourited this story; it means a lot, especially since this is the first piece of writing I've ever published- and, of course, to the people who took the time to review. There was some amazing helpfulness going on there, and rest assured that both praise and constructive criticism are much appreciated! I will, in all probability, rework Chapter 1 accordingly.**

**Just fyi, I plan to update this story every 3- 4 days.** **Expect plenty of Sherlock!whump, because that's how I roll (in case you hadn't noticed).** **XD**

**One more thing- If you find any mistakes, typos or incorrect wording, please let me know, because English isn't my first language (did I fool anyone?). Also, if anyone wants to beta this story or knows someone who'd be interested in doing so, drop me a line!**

**~Mimi**

CHAPTER 2

Sally didn't know what to do. For a long time, she just stood there and stared, because really, this couldn't be happening. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

She'd sat in the back row at his funeral. Lestrade had made her come, and John Watson had yelled at her for it.

And yet, here he was, bleeding onto her carpet.

As the reality of her thoughts dawned on her, she leapt into action.

"Jesus," she muttered, hurrying over to him. Sherlock was lying on his back, one arm draped across his torso, his head to the side, facing away from her. He was, as always, clad in his grey coat.

Sally fell to her knees beside him. Yes, there was definitely blood. That stupid, preposterous coat was soaked with it.

She undid the buttons as quickly as she could with trembling fingers, and carefully peeled away the heavy garment. Sally grimaced at the sight. Sherlock's shirt was torn at the shoulder; the wound beneath looked messy and was caked with dried blood. How long had he been lying here? And what, pray tell, was a former consulting detective- who was supposed to be bedded somewhere on a London graveyard- doing on the floor of her flat?

She took his head in her hands so that he faced her while she was hovering above him. Her fingers felt a bump and the rough edges of a wound on the side of his head; probably a concussion, then.

She debated whether it was safe to move him, deciding that she could hardly let him ruin her carpet further, and quickly covered the sofa with her least favourite blanket.

Blimey, he was heavy for someone so ridiculously thin. The small distance seemed endless as she dragged the limp body of Sherlock Holmes over the floor.

She managed to place his upper body on the cushions, then lifted his feet up and moved his whole body onto the sofa. Panting, she surveyed her work.

Sherlock's chest was slowly rising an falling, his arm dangling over the edge and his hand touching the floor. Sally quickly moved it so it once again lay over his chest.

She was glad he hadn't woken up. It probably should have worried her, but it gave her time to assess the situation.

Sherlock Holmes was not dead. And he knew, from what Lestrade had told her, that she had been the first to accuse him of those unspeakable crimes, of being a fraud.

But, Sally thought, biting her lower lip, the fact that he had shown up here, that he knew where she was... did that mean he knew what she had found? Could Sherlock Holmes be aware that she _knew_ he was innocent? That she knew why he had thrown (or not) himself off St. Bart's?

Suddenly, he stirred, and Sally was shaken out of her reverie. He didn't wake up, however, and Sally decided it was time she did something other than stare at him.

She changed into something more comfortable and not wet, and then grabbed the first- aid kit from the cupboard under the bathroom sink.

She wasn't a professional by any means, but it was better than nothing. Sally fetched a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth from the kitchen. She hesitated briefly before unbuttoning his shirt. It felt so wrong on far too many levels, but there really was no helping it.

She pushed the fabric away from the wound; once again, he stirred. A small groan escaped his lips, but his eyes remained closed.

Sally dampened the cloth and, as carefully as she could, proceeded in wiping away the blood around the wound. It felt so strange to be this close to him; she now realised that in the years she had been forced to interact with the man, she had never once actually touched him.

„_And now he's in my flat, half- naked, covered in blood, and I'm playing nurse. Great."_

She noticed dark, angry bruises on the other side of his ribcage; she only hoped he had no internal injuries, because if so, she would definitely have to take him to hospital.

As there was nothing she could do about that at the moment, she turned her attention back to his shoulder, proceeding to wipe away the dried blood. The wound was deep, the edges ragged; a stab wound, and the knife had been twisted before it had been pulled out.

Sally applied iodine from her kit to the wound, hoping she wasn't doing anything wrong, and then placed a patch auf gauze over it. She had just begun to wonder how she should wrap the bandages around the shoulder and the torso to make it hold, as she would have to move him, when finally, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and his eyes flew open.

Sally flinched back at the sudden movement. He took a sharp breath and before she could stop him, he had pushed himself up into a sitting position.

He let out the breath he had taken as a hiss, letting himself fall back onto the sofa and closing his eyes again. After a few moments, Sherlock's hand rose up and he pinched his nose.

„Are you surprised?" he asked, voice gruff, and still busy trying to make the pain in his head and side decrease to tolerable levels.

„What are you doing here?" she asked, amazed at how collected and cold she sounded. She was a little proud.

He released the bridge of his nose and turned his head to look at her. His eyes were slightly unfocused- definitely a concussion- but he smiled lop- sidedly, a smile that was so unnerving because she knew then that he _knew._

„I was in town," he answered vaguely, turning his head again and scrunching up his face as he made another attempt at sitting up.

„Maybe you should-" Sally began, but he'd already swung his legs over the edge of the sofa.

He didn't try to stand up, however, and pressed the gauze to the wound on his shoulder instead.

„You undressed me," he stated plainly, pulling the soiled shirt over his shoulders again, but leaving it unbuttoned. Sally stared at him.

He was muscular, she noticed, but thin, thinner even than she remembered. Sherlock probably considered eating a „dull" activity, much like almost everything else that didn't have to do with rotting corpses.

„You were bleeding, I was just trying to... help," Sally offered. She blushed. This was beyond awkward.

„Yes. I gathered."

It was a while before Sally realised she was staring again. Sherlock's eyes were moving rapidly, his brows knitted in silent contemplation and she knew he was probably in that ridiculous „mind palace" of his, whatever that was supposed to mean.

She picked up the gauze and began to wrap it around his chest and shoulder, nudging away his long fingers. He let it happen, seemingly not the tiniest bit interested in or bothered by her actions.

„How do you even know where I live?" she asked as she taped the bandage to his chest and rested her hands in her lap. Sherlock emerged from his thoughts and returned her expectant gaze.

„I have the British government for a brother. You think I can't monitor people?"

Sally had had the fortune to meet the elder Holmes brother only twice in the six years she'd known the consulting detective; Mycroft might be much more socially adept, but in truth, he was just as rude and his constant air of superiority was a trait he shared with his brother. The only satisfaction Sally got out of his visits was that Sherlock seemed to dislike his brother even more than she did, and it was a pure joy to see him squirm.

„Alright, then," she said. „Tell me this. How are you alive?"

He smirked. „Really. Use your brain, Donovan, it's not that hard to figure out."

She frowned at him for a few seconds before realization dawned on her face.

„You have the British government for a brother," she repeated his words.

„Indeed," he answered, now buttoning his shirt again. „That, and I have a very reliable friend working at the morgue."

„Molly," Sally breathed. Of course. She would help Sherlock. She'd adored Sherlock for as long as Sally could remember.

„It's been_ two_ _years_. Where have you been?"

„Two and a half. But I would have thought you'd much rather know why I came here, of all places."

She swallowed hard. She averted his gaze; she couldn't bear to look into his eyes, the steely grey orbs so intense it frightened her.

He stood up, only faltering slightly, and then began to pace back and forth in her living room.

„Well, it's rather simple. I had business here, important things to take care off-" he let his pale fingers run over the books on her shelf, smiling a little when he saw the dust accumulating at his fingertips," but was met with a minor setback. As you know, I'm legally dead, thus can hardly walk into a surgery or hospital, so I thought, who do I know in Nottingham?"  
>He gave her a humorless grin. „And there's this police woman, unhappy in her job now that she's away from the city she loves and the people she enjoyed working with, who desperately tries to fit in, but doesn't, who tries to make herself believe she wants to stay, but evidently hasn't given up the hope of returning to her former work place."<p>

Sally opened and closed her mouth.

Pointless.

„Why shouldn't I call the authorities? You're a criminal. The only reason you're not in jail is because you're supposed to be dead."

He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand.

„Oh, we both know why _that_ is, don't we, Sally?"

She froze. So he knew.

„Where is it?" Sherlock asked, turning his head this way and that, and Sally knew he was mocking her.

„You've hidden it, of course?"

She nodded meekly.

„Under my bed."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:

Very short chapter, but! I promise an update either tomorrow or the day after. It's already written, just need time for some fine- tuning. :]

Thank you all again for reading, reviewing, alerting, etc! You guys are amazing motivators. :]

CHAPTER 3

They sat across from each other at Sally's kitchen table, tea cups in front of them. The small, black object lay in the middle of the table, the lamp's bright glare reflected on the shiny surface.

„You listened, of course."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Of course it was; he wouldn't have come here if he wasn't sure.

„And you kept it a secret."

It wasn't a question, either.

Sherlock picked up his slightly battered Blackberry.

Sally shuddered involuntarily as a very faint and tinny version of „Staying Alive" erupted from the device.

„_Well, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock-"_

Sally bit her lip as Sherlock fast- forwarded. She felt his eyes on her, watching her every movement intently, his face blank. Emotionless. As always.

„_- extra incentive." _Harsh breathing. _„Your friends will die if you don't."_

Sally pulled her knees up, tucking them under her chin. She saw Sherlock's teeth clench at the sound of that voice, at those words; his jaw working beneath the tight, pale skin. When she had first listened to the recording, she had done a double- take at the phrasing. _Friends. _Not so emotionless, after all.

„_John." _

Even through the phone's speaker, Sherlock's voice was rich and deep. The other voice sent shivers down her spine.

„_Not just John." _

A pause.

„_Everyone." _

It was barely more than a whisper. Sally dared to look up, and found Sherlock's gaze fixed on the phone, as if he was trying to burn a hole through it with his eyes. If he kept staring like that, he actually might succeed, Sally thought to herself.

„_Mrs. Hudson?"_

„_Everyone."_

Moriarty sounded overjoyed. Excited. It was revolting.

„_Lestrade."_

Sally had been so confused the first time she had heard him say it. Greg Lestrade, a friend of Sherlock Holmes? But the more she had thought about it- and she had thought about it a lot in the past 30 months- the more it made sense. She had often wondered why Lestrade was so protective of the younger man, why he put up with him, brilliant however he may be. It occured to her that she didn't know how Sherlock and Greg had first met. But she knew he'd been to 221B not just for work- related reasons.

„_Three bullets."_

Sally remembered how she had first listened to the recording, alone in her flat back in London, after she had found Sherlock's phone on the roof of St. Bart's. It had been lying close to the edge, as if it had been discarded mindlessly.

„_Three gunmen." _

But she knew that nothing Sherlock ever did was without a reaosn. Without really thinking about it, she had picked it up, the words „found something" already in her throat, but she'd swallowed them back down. She'd slipped the phone into her pocket and had kept dusting for prints.

„_Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."_

The reality of what had happened had dawned on her then. Sherlock Holmes, the cold, strange creature (god forbid she would have actually called him a human being) she had to put up with for years, the man who had driven her into the arms and the bed of a co- worker just because he shared her hatred for him, had done something unspeakably _kind_. Somethig so selfless that it had made her shudder with guilt, because she had doubted him. She was the reason John Watson had seen his best friend fall.

Sherlock stopped the recording. Quiet rage played over his pale face before he quickly let the emotions disappear behind the usual mask of inviolability.

„Thank you."

It took Sally a few seconds to register what he had said.

„Pardon?"

There was the hint of a genuine smile on his lips.

„I said, thank you."

Sally let her legs slip back down from the chair, leaning forward.

„Why on earth would you _thank_ me? And because of _this_, of all things?"

He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, now resembling the Sherlock she remembered much more. For some reason, she found it incredibly reassuring.

„Have you actually listened to any of this?"

She nodded, not fully understanding.

„If you had made any of this public, three people would be dead. If you would have let the world know I'm not a fake, they would have carried out Moriarty's orders, despite their belief that I had jumped to my death."

A small „Oh," escaped Sally's lips.

She hadn't thought of that.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Guys, I'm so sorry for being late (again)! Work happened :( I officially hate Easter.**

**Back to business- thanks again to everyone who's reviewed and favourited. You made my day. :] **

**ALSO: I know it seems as if Sally has feelings for Sherlock- which she doesn't. At least she's not meant to. I can't seem to NOT write her in a way that's OOC, and I'm sorry. Bear with me?**

**In other news, I'm almost done with the "introductory" chapters now, so the pace is (hopefully) going to pick up after the next two or so updates. :] **

**Enjoy!**

When Sally woke up, the first streaks of light began to fall into the room. It was still early, and it was raining again, thick droplets hammering against the window unrelentingly. As much as she would have loved to turn back around and sleep some more, just pull those blankets tight around her and over her head, because it had gotten late last night, what with Sherlock Holmes suddenly appearing and _thanking_ her for discrediting his name-

„Jesus!" she yelped, throwing back the covers and jumping to her feet, eyes frantically scanning the room for her dressing gown. How could she have forgotten_ that_? Hastily, she dressed herself and opened the door to the living room.

As it turned out, she needn't have worried. Sherlock was still sprawled out all over her small couch, his legs too long to fit and thus dangling over the armrest, fast asleep.

It was strange to see him so peaceful, Sally mused as she made her way into the kitchen to make coffee. But then again, she thought, most people who had been dead for about 30 months were a lot more peaceful, usually.

A barely stifled groan wafted over from the living room and she glanced over the counter to find Sherlock sitting on the couch, rubbing his eyes furiously, long pointer finger literally digging into his eye socket.

„Coffee?" Sally asked, at a loss as to what to say to him.

He looked up, hair messy and eyes tired, and gave a small nod before getting to his feet.

He grimaced, his hand carefully rubbing his side where the large, black bruises were hidden beneath the fabric.

„Are you... alright?" Sally inquired, hesitantly. She wasn't at all sure of herself.

It had always been her thing, she was a self- confident, independent woman, and she liked it that way. But now, with Sherlock, she'd been the one who had done wrong, and it confused her to no end. It was uncharted territory to be the guilty one in the room, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out how to act.

But Sherlock just nodded and sat down opposite her at the counter. His eyes, Sally observed, were still slightly hazy and unfocused, with dark circles underneath that told of his restless afterlife.

„Stop staring at me like that, Donovan, it's really rather unnerving," he suddenly mumbled and Sally looked up, startled. She hadn't realized that she'd been oggling him for the better part of five minutes.

„Sorry," she said, awkwardly. „I was just... thinking."

He looked up, a faint smile on his lips. „Oh, really?"

Sally rolled her eyes. „I'm quite capable of basic brain functions, _freak_," she said, but they both knew there was no venom in her words. It was a piece of normalcy in an otherwise incredibly unexpected conversation.

„Well, then. Tell me what the great mind of Sally Donovan has wondered."

Sally was utterly confused, because could it be, could it really, possibly be true that Sherlock Holmes was trying to be _nice_ to her?

„I've been asking myself what the hell you've been up to. What you were doing in Nottingham."

„I thought that was really rather obvious."

„Of course it is, to you. But, since I'm so incredibly ignorant, please do tell."

He took the coffee cup she offered him into his skinny hands, the long, pale fingers wrapping around the warm mug.

„Obviously, Moriarty has taken measures against his Empire being destroyed after his death. After all, he made sure that his henchmen would carry out his plans if I didn't comply with his demands. I have to make certain that every last bit of his web is erradicated. That the people I care about are safe. And I need evidence to clear my name; that recording may have convinced you, but it won't hold up in court."

He took a sip from his cup and grimaced. „You're not too fond of sugar, are you?"

But he took another mouthful, anyway.

„And that's what you've been doing all this time?" Sally asked. „You've been going after his men."

„There's just a few strings of the web left that need... disentangling."

„That's how... all this," she gestured towards his shoulder, „happened?"

„Yes; my fault, I have to admit. I underestimated him. Had a lot more fight in him than I expected." His fingertips played an unheard tune against the side of the mug, grey eyes for an instant far away, and Sally thought it better not to inquire further.

„I need to make a call," he said suddenly, and Sally almost jumped at the urgency in his voice.

„Right," she said. „I'll get my phone."

Mycroft Holmes was a rather patient man, a trait resulting out of his slight tendency towards laziness. But the one point that had always managed to get him to come running, despite his extreme dislike of _legwork_, never had anything to do with his professional occupation. He'd gone through times of war and civil unrest without ever so much as rising from his favourite armchair.

Little brothers could be so _irritable_.

Sherlock had dropped off the grid almost 24 hours ago, had failed to call in as agreed and meet Mycroft's men for his ride back to London. So it was, Mycroft felt, very understandable for him to be worried out of his mind. He'd been against his brother going off on his own, but Sherlock could be too damn stubborn for his own good.

So the call found Mycroft pacing in his study, hands clasped together behind his back and a deep frown upon his high forehead.

„Sherlock?"

„Hello, brother dear."

Mycroft let out a relieved sigh. Worry turned to anger within moments, though.

„_Where_ have you been?"

„Sergeant Donovan has been so kind as to let me stay the night."

Surprise washed over Mycroft's face, one of the emotions only Sherlock was able to procure in him.

„Really? That's... moderately unexpected."

„I was met with a small impediment that required a save haven to recover from."

„Are you hurt?"

Mycroft was familiar with he lax way Sherlock treated himself, the younger Holmes often being ignorant of his own health. Over the past two and a half years, there had been numerous instances in which he'd had to intervene for Sherlock's sake because his little brother was too stubborn to seek help. About two months after The Fall, Mycroft had added a private doctor to his list of employees.

„I'm fine. When will they be here?"

„They've been waiting. Be ready in half an hour, they'll call."

„Thank you. Laters."

Sherlock hung up and Mycroft cast away his mobile with a long- suffering sigh. He knew from experience that Sherlock being „fine" could range from him being actually alright to bleeding to death in some back alley.

He was still pacing, albeit now slowly and thoughtfully, when Anthea opened the door.

„Sir?"

He turned and took in her urgent expression.

„Yes?"

„Sir, I think we might have a problem."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Guys, I'm so sorry. There's no excuse. Well, actually, that's a lie, I had to cover shifts at work, but anyway. Sorry!**

**As always, thanks to all you lovely people who read, reviewed, alerted (is that even a word?), etc. You make all this worthwhile :D Also, sorry for the absurd number of cliffhangers. I can't _stop_. I don't even know how, they just keep... happening. :]  
><strong>

**In other news, I think I've worked out how to mark the changes in POV, we'll see if it works. :]**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock was, admittedly, in quite a terrible mood. It was hardly surprising; his head hurt- actually, everything hurt- he was tired, away from home and Sally Donovan, despite not being rude per se, was not the most amiable company.<p>

She'd found a clean shirt for him (and he'd refrained from making any comment about why she would have man's clothing in her flat, thank you very much) which, although too big for him, was a nice change from his own blood- stained garments.

Sally sat at the counter, pretending to read yesterday's newspaper, but Sherlock didn't even need to use his deductive skills to know she was watching him. She kept glancing over to the sofa where he lay, sprawled out, because his ribs protested against being forced into an upright position for too long.

Sally's phone gave a small chirp and Sherlock reached out to pick it up. He glanced at the small screen.

„They're here."

He got up and picked up his coat, turning as he was already halfway to the door.

„Aren't you coming?" he asked, somewhat nonchalantly.

Sally gaped at him. „Wh- what?"

Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh. „As much as it pains me to admit it, but you could be of use to me, and you obviously _want_ to come. Your body language is practically screaming it, so what, precisely, are you waiting for?"

Sally wavered for a second as to what to reply, but then simply stood up and grabbed her own coat.

„Took you long enough," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he walked out the door, Sally on his heels.

In order to get to the street where Mycroft's men were parked, the pair had to go around the building. Sherlock kept taking huge strides, his legs quite a few inches longer than Sally's, and she almost had to run to keep up with him.

„What happens when we get to London?" Sally asked, running a few yards because Sherlock had gotten ahead of her, again.

„We meet my brother," Sherlock answered, walking even faster.

„And then? Moriarty's web, are we going to find more of his men?"

„Hopefully. But you're not going to be part of that."

„What?"

They turned the last corner and Sally could see a black, somewhat luxurious car parked twenty metres up the road.

„Discretion has never been Mycroft's strong suit," Sherlock muttered, ignoring her, as they approached their ride.

He opened the rear door and poked his head inside.

„How incredibly inconspicuous of you-"

He broke off, and Sally watched with a terrible sense of foreboding as shock spread over the pale face in front of her. Sherlock looked up, grey eyes wide, and suddenly, everything changed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock knew the instant he saw the interior of the car that something very, very bad was about to happen. It didn't take a man of his intellect to figure it out.<p>

He recognized the faces of the two men who had been chosen as his designated drivers; the one was Stevenson, a fair- haired, middle- aged man with broad shoulders and a quiet personality; the other, Traiton, was younger and had close- cropped, bright red hair and had the capacity to talk for half an hour without once pausing for breath.

But for once, the ginger was silent, a fact Sherlock attributed to the bullet that had not too long ago embedded itself in the young man's temple. The blood was still flowing freely, staining the crisp white collar of his shirt.

Stevenson was resting his head on the steering wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing. There was a bright crimson stain on his shirt where Sherlock estimated the man's heart to be.

Sherlock pulled his head out of the car's interior and caught a glimpse of Sally Donovan's alarmed face; it was all he could do to _move_, pulling Sally down to the ground beside himself.

„What's wrong? What's happened?"  
>She was scared, Sherlock could see it; pupils dialated, breathing quickening.<p>

„The drivers are dead. Shot." He craned his head, but couldn't get a glimpse of the other side of the street.

„_What?_"

„Someone must have followed me last night. Maybe yours or Mycroft's phone has been tapped, I don't know."

He closed his eyes, desperately trying to just think, but the lingering headache made it difficult.

„What do we do?"

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes. „We need to run. If the killer is still in the vicinity-"

He straightened slightly and Sally followed suit.

„Ready?" he asked, looking back at her.

And then, Sally Donovan ran like hell.

* * *

><p>They hadn't gotten far when Sherlock suddenly stopped. Sally turned, wondering whether they were actually being chased. But if they were, a small side alley off Lower Parliament Street, where the walls of the buildings rose up high and there was nowhere to go except for- and backwards certainly wasn't the best place for a breather.<p>

„What-"

She stopped because she didn't have to ask what was wrong. Sherlock was incredibly pale, even for someone of his complexion. Sally was quite sure he was only upright because he was leaning against the wall.

Broken ribs and running wasn't the best combination, it seemed.

Sally looked behind her, then back to him again; they needed to go somewhere save, and quick. She really didn't have any particular desire to end the same way as those two men in the car.

She rushed towards him and put one of his long arms over her shoulders.

„Come on."

About 10 minutes of dragging a disgruntled consulting detective later, Sally had found them a hideout. One of the old buildings was being renovated, but with it being Sunday, there were no workers about.

„Do you think we're save here?" Sally asked as she lowered Sherlock onto the floor of the second storey.

„Should be," he ground out, wincing when Sally finally released him. The pain was slightly better now, but still bad enough to seriously make him consider stopping breathing altogether.

„What do we do now?"

Sally was letting herself slide down the wall opposite of him, watching him closely. Her mind was reeling with the events of that morning.

How on earth had she gotten into this mess?

First, she'd loathed him. Then she had found out what he had supposedly done, and loathing turned into a burning hatred. And then, there was guilt, vicious and overwhelming.  
>And now? Now, they were running for their lives together.<p>

_How do we feel about that?_

„I've texted Mycroft. He hasn't replied."

Sherlock's hand was back to gingerly rubbing his side, trying to even his breathing. It delt like something buried deep in the depth of his consciousness was _itching_. It was irritating. What was even more obnoxious was that he couldn't figure out what was bothering him.

„How did they know about the drivers?"

Sherlock pondered Sally's inquiry. His hands came up slowly until his fingertips reached his lips, the pose he usually assumed when in deep thought. Sally knew better than to interrupt him.

Suddenly, he let out a small gasp. A few seconds later, Sally knew why. She'd heard it, too.

Footsteps.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Guys, this chapter. Seriously. It was like me and the plot were engaged in some kind of static warfare over the past week, and I'm still not really happy with it. But in the end, I couldn't be arsed to keep re- writing it, so here it is.**

**Also, you may have noticed I've changed the rating for this story to T. That's for gore and violence past and yet to come, though it's never going to be excessive, I think.**

**As always, thank you for the reviews and alerts and such, keep them coming! :]**

* * *

><p>Sally stared at her strange companion with wide, frightened eyes. Had they indeed been followed? She'd seen what these people could do. They had murdered two men in cold blood.<p>

Was she going to be next?

Sherlock put a pale, long finger to his lips and signaled her to be silent. Then, he got to his feet, slowly and noiselessly walking to the door.

The steps were below them. Ground floor.

_Get out._

How?

Sherlock's mind was playing out dozens of scenarios in seconds. But there were too many variables.

He had to be sure of a few things first.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate. They were trying to be quiet, noiseless, but the ground floor hadn't been renovated yet, and the creaking wood was betraying them.

There were two of them; male, both sturdily built, around 180 pounds each going by the groaning of the floor boards beneath their feet; tall, judging by the length of their stride.

The brawn, definitely. What about the brains?

Sherlock motioned for Sally to get up from the floor, and she did so noiselessly. He checked Sally's phone once more. Mycroft still hadn't answered.

Sherlock crept closer to the door, Sally following him.

„How do we get out?" she whispered as they were next to each other again. „They're downstairs, how are we going to get past them?"

Sherlock peeked out of the room. A hallway lined with a banister on the left side, a staircase leading to the floor below. At the other side of the house, a room, its door facing the stairs.

„Get in there. When you get the chance, run."

She looked up at him, still wide- eyed, but for once, she did as she was told. She sneaked out of the the room and down the hallway, keeping as far away from the banister as she could to avoid being seen. Sherlock watched as she vanished around the door of the room opposite.

He took as deep a breath as he could and passed through the door.

This wouldn't be fun.

* * *

><p>„Show me!"<p>

Mycroft stormed into the room with so much vigour in his step that the two men working on the computers subconsciously ducked their heads, scooting closer to their screens.

With Anthea behind him, the elder Holmes came to a halt behind one of the computers.

„This is where we saw them last," she said, pointing at a steet corner not far from what was labeled as „Donovan Residence" on the virtual map.

„The signal hasn't moved, but when we tried contacting the operatives, CCTV gave us this."

She nodded toward the technician and a grainy black and white picture appeared on his screen.

It showed two men, one tall, the other smaller and thinner, but both obviously dead.

Dread overcame Mycroft at the sight. Not because of the two dead men in the car he had sent, no; their deaths were regrettable, but ultimately, they were dispensable. His brother, however, was not.

And what was worse, he thought, was that he couldn't get a hold of the little pest.

„Find them. And find out who did this, and how the hell they managed it."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was not quite sure how on earth it was possible to get oneself into situations in which nothing was more valuable than a lump of metal. But as the rusty pipe, part of the truss around the house, in his hands connected with his assailant's head with a sickening crunch, he knew for certain that he was now stuck in one. Again.<p>

His first attacker hit the floor, but his victory was short- lived. Something- someone- slammed into him and he was being pushed into the closest wall, pipe clattering to the floor.

The impact left him breathless, pain flaring up again in his side, and he was left spluttering while he was being forcefully turned around.

The man's burly face, now far too close to Sherlock's own, was red with anger and strain, the cut across his cheek where Sherlock's improvised weapon had struck him bleeding viciously. His small, watery eyes were gleaming dangerously and Sherlock knew he was in serious, _serious_ trouble.

The hands that held him pinned to the wall moved higher up, until they found his throat, and there thick, strong fingers curled around pale skin and _tightened_.

Too many things shot through Sherlock's mind as he struggled to free himself, arms and hands and feet swatting uselessly against the unyielding figure that loomed over him.

Black Lotus. John, unaware that his friend was in the middle of being strangled by a chinese assassin, yelling through the mail slot.

„_...nobody can compete with my massive intellect!"_

His vision became blurry. His head hurt; he was faintly aware of the wound there throbbing as his feeble attempts to fight off his attacker grew weaker.

The room was spinning, colours swirling and strange patterns imprinting themselves into his mind. Sherlock closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he fell to the side. He hadn't felt the hands losening, and so this development came as a bit of a shock. Pain flared up all over his body as he hit the ground; for a brief moment, consciousness left him.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, there was a blurry something hovering over him. He frowned and narrowed his eyes. The blurry something turned into a blurry someone, and then, finally, with the help of a few well- aimed slaps to his cheek, turned into the _worried_ face of Sally Donovan.

„Freak, come _on_!"

He suddenly started coughing, the movement hurting his throat and his ribs and _why was he so tired all of a sudden?_, and Sally helped him to sit up against the wall.

„Are you alright?", she asked, still sounding uncharacteristically concerned for his well- being. Sherlock decided that there wasn't enough oxygen in him to answer, so he ignored her for the time being.

When the black dots swarming his vision began to fade, he looked around. The one man he had knocked out lay close to the center of the room, still out cold.

The other, however, looked very different to how he remembered him. He lay face- down in a small pool of his own blood, the pipe Sherlock had lost earlier next to him. He frowned and then looked at Sally.

„What? You didn't really think I'd hide upstairs while you managed to get yourself throttled, did you?"

Even using his sleep- deprived, oxygen- starved and otherwise seriously muddled brain, he could put two and two together and figure out what had happened.

Sally Donovan had saved his life.

Well, this was certainly... new.

* * *

><p><strong>Dear heavens. No cliffhanger. What is wrong with me? Just kidding, thought you could do with a break :]<strong>

**Next chapter will be up sooner than this one, I hope, but no promises. Love!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Oh, look who's coming out of hibernation! I don't even know what happened to time, it just flew by and a week passed just like that. I'm really sorry for being late (again), guys, and this isn't even a real chapter. It's short and a transition and I'm not happy and truly sorry for inflicting such terrible quality on you, but here it is. **

**However, I have the plot all neatly planned out now, so yay for me. **

**And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry because you're in for some frustration. Which kind of pleases me, by the way. Sadist? Why, yes. :]**

**As always, tons of love to everyone who reviewed, alerted and such. The amazing Fool Who Follows has been kind enough to do some spell checking for me, so I'll edit and re- post some stuff in the next few days. Thank you! :]  
><strong>

**~Mimi  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Sally had, as strange as it sounded, actually enjoyed the relationship she and Sherlock Holmes had shared back then, before that morning on the rooftop of a hospital that changed everything. The bickering, the open loathing, the endless arguments; it was nice to have someone whom she could hate unconditionally, who, if the situation called for it, filled out the role of the scapegoat so flawlessly. She hadn't liked being wrong practically all the time, that was one of the things that made the „Consulting Detective" so infuriating, but otherwise, theirs had been a symbiotic relationship in which one took pleasure in the simple way of hating someone without guilt or regret, and the other appreciated being able to direct a constant string of insults at the other.<p>

It was easy, straightforward; they always knew where they stood with each other.

Well, it was safe to say a lot had changed since then.

As Sally stood over the two bound men, the metal pipe again firmly in her hands, she wondered what was going to happen now. It started to dawn on her what John Watson meant when he used to say that when around Sherlock, one wasn't likely to get bored. Well, she'd been with him for under 24 hours, and apart from the few hours of fitful slumber, she hadn't had time to stop for breath.

One of the men groaned and lifted his head from where it rested on his companion's shoulder. His bald head turned towards her and small, squinting eyes glowered up at her. For a moment, he frowned in confusion, but as his situation became clear to him, he began to wiggle and struggle against the duct tape Sally had bound the two with, but to no avail.

After a while, he stopped, defeated, and his now red face and the huff of frustration muffled by the tape over his mouth spoke volumes.

Sally grinned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's steps were still a bit uncertain, but otherwise, he was remarkably steady on his feet for someone who had been stabbed, punched and strangled in the not too distant past. And who was, at least officially, dead.<p>

He rounded yet another corner and inwardly cursed the Nottingham City Council and their damned incompetence. How difficult could it be to put up public phones in a city like this? He'd have Mycroft fire some people.

He neared the train station, and finally, he was in luck. Sherlock slipped into the booth and quickly dialed the number.

„Yes?"

His brother's voice was sharp and somewhat agitated. Sherlock had an inkling why. He had known when Mycroft hadn't answered him that something was wrong.

„Hello, brother dear."

Sherlock heard Mycroft suck in a deep breath.

„Sherlock. I trust you're unharmed?"

The younger Holmes smiled to himself. So predictable. But that was Mycroft all over, and Sherlock felt, once again, a strange sense of fondness for his brother.

„I'm fine. The drivers weren't as lucky."

A sigh.

„I saw."

Of course. Mycroft and his damned eyes and ears. They were everywhere, every corner. The sod was probably watching him right now. Sherlock immediately stood straighter, although the movement made his bashed- in ribcage throb slightly.

You wouldn't happen to have any more of your men in the area?"

Mycroft sounded much more collected as he answered.

„They're on their way."

„Good. Also, I have a package that needs delivering."

„How many?"

„Just two. But they might have some answers."

* * *

><p>Sally's ears perked up when she heard the gravel on the small path leading to the house crunch beneath someone's feet. Grasping the lump of metal tighter, she snuck over to the window.<p>

Relieved, she turned back to her charge, still bound on the floor.

„Have they been good?" Sherlock asked as he entered the house and closed the door behind himself carefully.

„Very. Haven't said a word," Sally replied. The men, now both awake and both sufficiently silenced by duct tape, continued their hateful staring.

„Mycroft's sending backup," Sherlock informed her. „They'll be here in a few hours."

„Oh. Uhm, that's good."

Sally turned back, biting her lower lip and wondering what on earth she was going to do with Sherlock Holmes for the next couple of hours.

As it turned out, not much; Sherlock was leaving Sally to guard the two men on the floor while the man himself paced the length of the den, gesturing wildly and muttering quietly to himself. Sally had seen him like this a few times, only then, he'd more often then not had held his violin, plucking at the strings absent- mindedly while forming wild theories. The twitching of his fingers told her he was probably imagining holding the instrument right now.

She was too caught up in her reminiscences of the past to realise that he had suddenly stopped his frantic movements.

She watched as a shudder went through his body and the previously agitated and scrunched up face evened out, eyes widening and lips parting to let out a whispered, „Oh".

Before she could ask him what grand realisation had come over him, a knock interrupted her contemplations.

"And that would be the cavalry."


End file.
